Savasana

Flat out on the yoga mat, my body tells me again: enough. I'm sore from yesterday's class, and it feels hotter today, pushing 110 degrees. Sweat pours from me like a waterfall, preventing combustion. My muscles feel strong and I complete a few of yesterday's elusive poses, but after each one my heart thumps and my breath is hard to catch. Above me is a fan, set to low, in the center is a reflection of my limp lying form. Beside me, just outside of center, is rara, dripping but still working.

The fan swirls.

Sweat rolls unrelentingly. I try to get up. My heart pins me down. I acquiesce. Back inside the fan, back to purgatory. Ceramic space heaters blow with prejudice, cook fuckers, cook. I focus on a single blade. My eyes spin in their sockets.

The fan churns.

I remain still, staring. Yoga is completely different from what I know. It follows the body's kinetic chain, strengthens connections, and stimulates, encouraging peace. It is lack of peace that pins me to the mat. My heart, aerobically trained, feels out of sync with my body. Connections are cordoned off, impassable, forcing me to recall another time, when I fancied myself a bodybuilder. But in reality, my body flowed with the fuel of insecurity. I force fed myself to pack on size, to survive the unpredictability of an alcoholic and a sadist.

The fan agitates.

I wish I gave myself a break then, as I do now. I wish I never pushed against gravity, the weight of my depression, weights too heavy for my joints to bear. I am paying the price, taking that break too late, the damage is done...maybe...

Prison Laundry

Ideologically, I'm changing. Things matter to me more now than they ever did, like my carbon footprint. I find myself conscious of the things I do everyday that might make it a little deeper, or etched. We don't use plastic anymore and try hard not to purchase things that come in petroleum laden casing. We don't cook with it or use the microwave as much, if at all (Although I do use it to time my recipes, like the chicken pot pie that's in the oven right now).

Take laundry. We tried countless times to use only organic detergents. Tide and the like are poison to both us and the environment. But each time our clothes ended up smelling like a wet dog. Not the best scent for trying to keep clients, but I did fit in better on the T. Once again, at rara's behest, we are trying a product recommended by a fellow crunchie, I'll keep you posted, or maybe you can just approach me and take a whiff.

But as with all things, rara has taken laundry to a new level, preferring to take garments into the shower to clean. I have the utmost aversion to this, not because I don't applaud her efforts but because of the trauma it evokes. Let me explain:

Just after the initial strip search in prison, the guard hands you bedding, heavy denim, and a fishnet bag for laundry. Every Wednesday they collect those laundry bags, which we cons stuff and tie as tightly as we can for fear the bag will open. If your bag opens and loses your laundry, it can take weeks for the property offer to get around to answering your request for new duds. Sometime Wednesday afternoon the bags come back either steaming hot and burnt, soaking wet and smelly, or my favorite, microwaved, steaming hot on the outside, wet and cold in the middle.
I favored buying extra bars of soap from the canteen, so that once a week I could wash my clothes in the shower. It wasn't uncommon to see me walking to the showers fully dressed. No, this wasn't to thwart off those who might seek to follow up on my dropping of the soap, it was so I could scrub my clothes clean and avoid the possibility of the laundry leaving me with only one outfit.

These days, post prison, I am grateful for the opportunity to use a washer and dryer, as I am grateful for the opportunity to do just about anything without being strip searched first. rara, God bless her, uses a Yahoo group called Freecycle whenever we need to downsize, or are ever looking for something, like wine glasses, hiking boots, chairs, desks, bulletin boards, or Brita water filters. In Nahant, she got us a washer for free--and it screamed and hissed so loudly that sometimes we had to turn up the TV or leave the apartment entirely. Now, since she started bathing with our dirty laundry, things are showing up around the apt that she hoped I wouldn't notice, like the Laundry Spinner and the drying rack. I might have to shank her.

Traditions

Traditions are like compulsions, done over and over, without much thought as to why. Growing up, we'd attend midnight mass on Christmas eve. Why? It was tradition. We set up a traditional tree, decorated with ornaments made by my Polish grandmother. We ate a traditional Polish dinner, pierogi, golabki, kielbasa, and cruscik. I haven't continued any of these traditions, for the most part, they nauseate me.

Today, I create my own traditions. On Sundays, we get together with our neighbors downstairs and eat the dinner I prepare, usually out of the Fresh and Honest cookbook from Henrietta's Table, where we got married. We sit, hopefully reverend Austin is there to bless the meal, mostly by remaining quiet, resting his neck. Tuck (Aka: Tuck Amuck), sits patiently, waiting for me to toss him a morsel, several actually.

Being with Allison, or Al, never Ali, and Gaylen feels like home to us. They've been here since we moved in but it's only been lately that we've gotten this close. Actually, Rachel has always been close to them, it's me that it takes a while to warm up to. Mostly because of my faltering filters, that fail to stop me from saying whatever comes to mind. Countless times throughout the year, I've left them speechless. My sense of humor is like quills on a porcupine, relaxed, they are soft, erect, they prick.

Allison and Gaylen have the type of relationship that rara and I have. Separate, they are completely different people. Gaylen has an undeniable edge, that fiery anger that makes her a menace on the road and a riot after a few drinks. Allison buys humane mouse traps that contain rather than kill. Picture Gaylen in the early morning hours letting our mouse free in a field, something I'd do for rara. I wonder if, to the mouse, the experience is like an alien abduction without the anal probe. But I digress.

Unlike oil and water, they emulsify, their differences gloss over, and they blend. It's hard to imagine one without the other, or that either exists as separate entities. Sunday dinner, and our lives are richer because of them, good friends truly are hard to find.

A few Sundays ago I attempted what seemed a simple crab and corn chowder recipe. I bought all the ingredients except the rock crab that Whole Foods doesn't carry. The fish counter suggested I try H-Mart in Burlington. So Reverend Austin and I made the trek. We could tell by both the business of the lot and the predominance of the shoppers going to and fro, that H-Mart was a different kind of store. The size of a typical Shaw's, inside it opened up into a unique shopping experience. Immediately to our left were several glass cases of jewelry. With a furrowed brow I turned to Reverend Austin just in time to see him shrug.

To the right, a food court of sorts lined the wall, only there was no pizza, burgers or, greasy tacos, there were only Japanese steak houses, and Chinese fresh fish joints. The produce section was a plethora of every imaginable fruit and vegetable. The back wall was sectioned for meats, the reds made up only a fraction, the fish stretched the entire length of the building. They had everything imaginable, and five varieties not yet discovered, including a tentacle section. At each station stood at least three workers, waiting to assist. I asked for crab and was directed to the corner where several varieties sat chilled in a cooler. Only one was shelled and canned. I grabbed what they had and made my way to the front.

Many things stood out as Reverend Austin and I, made our purchase. One was that along with food, parts of the building were sectioned into smaller stores where one could buy a TV, luggage, T-shirts, and the aforementioned, Jewelry. But what stood out the most was the fact that as I hurried through, I was stymied countless times by groups of people standing in the way. Typically, this annoys me, until I realized that it wasn't coincidence, running into these groups. More than shopping, most were there to chat, catch up with old friends, or make new ones. There was a sense of community amongst these people and I found myself feeling ashamed of pushing my way through, intruding on these people's Sunday Tradition, just so I could get back to my own.

Someone said, "It's like they got married in a Starbucks." It's funny how many people take offense when we tell them we got married in a restaurant. So conventional, marriage seems, that when it's done unconventionally, people write it off as if our bond isn't sacred.

I used to joke with Rachel that the only thing that mattered to me was the ring. I felt she needed it. She felt she had enough gems. So I bit the bullet, spent more than I had, and bought her the ring I am proud to see sparkling under the track lighting of the wine tasting we attended tonight. She, in turn, employed a local artist to design my band, using gold and stones bought by reputable, sustainable companies, who don't pollute or use slave labor. So quintessentially rara.

The ceremony was held in The Charles River Hotel, in the function room of Henrietta's Table. We invited close friends and family, 35 in all, to sit with us, enjoy a great meal with organic wine, the food prepared using ingredients bought from local farms, that grow mostly organic produce. The ceremony, performed by the newly ordained, Reverend Austin Ritter (rara's bro), could not have gone more smoothly, hilarious yet poignant. After, we ate, drank, some danced, without the stuffiness of most conventional weddings. The cake was perfect, the flavors accentuated by the excitement of the day, and the proximity of those we love the most.

For me and Rach, the day could not have been more perfect. We married in the same fashion as we live, for each other, conscious of where our money goes, careful to consider the long term consequences of our actions.

And we laughed.

Karate Kid

The plan was fiendishly simple. Kill my brother, a stroke of genius. And who could blame me? No one. No jury in the world would convict a helpless, abused, doe eyed preteen of murdering such a callous individual. I’d parade countless witnesses that would corroborate my story, neighborhood kids that witnessed every wedgie.

So I enrolled in self defense classes. Cal, or sensei, was a seventh degree black belt that ran a studio with his son, Cal Jr. Cal was portly with golden skin, slicked back hair, and an overbite that gave some words a sucking sound. I never once saw him out of his gi, coveted for the black belt that proclaimed him a badass beyond reproach. It wrapped tightly around a rotund belly, he’d rest his hands on the knot as he looked over the class, casting disparaging looks, remarking about our softness and lack of discipline.

His son was the epitome of deception. Soft, soft spoken, shy to a fault. It almost made me doubt the veracity of his black belt, faded; possibly one of his fathers’s pulled from the closet, next to the untouched loafers, just under the tweed sport coat with leather elbow patches.
Pictures of Cal Sr. fighting in tournaments adorned the walls near the shrine, an alcove at the end of the empty studio where swords were mounted on a marble alter. Their lacquered handles gleamed seductively under the recessed lights.

No one was allowed to touch them out of respect for the weapon. Weapons were the last resort of the warrior, Cal would say, he must first learn to use his brains. It was that last resort I always waited for him to describe. Hoping he’d offer the justification for the hate I felt, that at times made me sick to my stomach. I’d wait patiently for him to elaborate, but he only talked of defending, never offending, of Sun Tzu and The Art of War whose teachings hung from a tapestry opposite the shrine:

When able to attack, we must seem unable;
When using our forces, we must seem inactive.
When we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away.
When far away, we must make him believe we are near.
If he is secure at all points, be prepared for him. If he is in superior strength, evade him.
If your opponent is of choleric temper, seek to irritate him. Pretend to be weak, that he may grow arrogant.
Hence to fight and conquer in all your battles is not supreme excellence; supreme excellence consists in breaking the enemy's resistance without fighting.

I studied them. Learned to recite them on command. Except the last one. It slipped from my memory, evaded repetition, and washed away like liquid through a sieve. The last tenant mocked me, exposed me for what I was, a spy infiltrating to learn how to kill my brother, to use the art of defense to wage, not protect.

During sparring sessions my anger exposed me as a fraud. I’d rage toward opponents, no longer a representative of the tenants that hovered above, their essence betrayed.
Cal stopped every match, yanked me aside and reprimanded me for ignoring the first, last, and only rule of sparring, no contact. With each infraction I was sentenced to pushups until he saw that I needed a lesson in control.

He summoned Cal Jr. to the room, paired me against him, mumbled something about seeing if I had what it took. I saw it as my chance to expose him as a fraud. Cal Sr. offered the pads, shin, elbow, and head. I waved them off. We bowed to the master to show respect, to each other.
Fight! Cal asserted. I was already in my stance, brimming with energy, on the balls of my feet aching to move forward. My head snapped back. The hard rubber sole of Cal’s shoe hit front while the solid concrete assaulted my back. He flattened me with a kick I never saw.
I sprung up; water welled in my battered eye. Cal Sr. cupped my head in his meaty paws and rotated it left to right, checking the damage.

“Pay attention, your weight’s all over the place. Center.” he advised. “Are you ready?” he asked.
I was already poised, weight on my heels, primed to take the brunt of an oncoming attack. Fight!
Cal Jr. stood, immovable. I waited, ready to defend. The anger begged to engage. It built like steam against a turbine. When it was clear that Cal wasn’t going to initiate, I shuffled forward only to meet the gaze of water stained ceiling tiles. My legs were swept out from under me. I was once again flattened by an attack I never saw coming.

I had fantasies of becoming Cal Sr.’s progeny, the chosen one prophesized to take the art of self defense to the next level and beyond. I searched my body for a mark that slated me The One. I only found a mole that loosely resembled Charlie Brown. But the position was filled. Cal Jr. was next in line. The best I could hope for was to teach the Saturday morning toddler class when Cal Sr. was too tired. I quit after receiving my brown belt.

Suicide Watch

During assessments I used to have to ask if patients had any suicidal ideations. Most veterans answered no because they knew I'd paste myself to their sides if they answered yes. An affirmative was always followed up with whether or not they had a plan. Only once was I given details. He was transferred to the psych ward and spent a portion of his thirty day stay in four point restraints. If conspiracy is father to the felony, the plan is the offspring of ideations.


When my anger chews me up and spits me out I fight back, swinging at ghosts, hitting only tangible things that matter most. I push love away, try to snap bonds in half. Isolate. I drag myself to therapy and pit my PhD in pain against her Masters in Social Work. So far she's held her own. We'll see what happens when I really try to push.


In session three she asked if I still felt like using. Of course I do, because this year has been so hard. But its less like a craving and more like a golden parachute. My way out of pain, however temporary. After thirteen years I'm smart enough to know that when I pull the cord, an anvil will jettison from the pack and drag me to the ground.


After I admit that I want to use she asks, "Do you have a plan?"


Funny how the same follow up exists for relapsing as for suicide.


Coincidence?


I think not.

WAAAAAH!

There are benefits to being neurotic. For instance, I get to swing pendulous between extremes, moods turn on a dime, loving and hating at the same time makes for an interesting day. My neurotic side gets edgy at the prospect of a new therapist and shoots down potentials for having a lazy eye or a turkey neck. They're all crazy as Christians, he'll lament. I choose a woman so he'll compare her to Mom, orchestrator of this mess I call a psyche. She'll examine. But I'll shut her down at the door. Sorry, Bryan's unavailable at the moment, but if you'd like to leave a message....

I tried a male whose timidity fell somewhere between kitten caught in a thunder storm, and turtle surrounded by bored teens. I swear he salivated at my list of symptoms and their catalyst. I wrote him off, delighted that I present such a challenge.

I see her Monday. A smell something like potpourri or sleepytime tea will permeate the air. I'll decline all beverages. She'll interpret my choice of chairs. Hers will be cordoned off with everyday trinkets, glasses maybe, a cell turned off. Books will line the shelves, the titles will spill forth like bullet items on a resume. She read Jung and Erickson but finds Freud too...too...whatever. He snorted cocaine to quell a crippling fear of social occasions. Ditto. Call him what you like, the man had impecable taste in narcotics.

I'll need her to challenge me if this is going to work. She'll have to fight because I protect it. Cup it in clenched hands crowbars can't pry. Over time, she'll push me to release it, but how can I release the very thing that defines me?

My essence.

My pain...

Hindsight

Flashback to 05/02/1987. Like any other 17 year old, my friends were my world, impressing them, my priority. Twenty two years later, Blaine sets up dinner on a night that we're all free. Ritchie and Tommy blow it off. Pete's detained by work. Blaine, Chris, Duane, Rachel, and I sit down to dinner. Olivia, our waitress, is wonderful, engaging, attentive. Alcohol flows, tongues loosen. The skeletal remains of past insecurities wash up on waves of nostalgia. But I am inherently different now...or so I thought.

I wear my past like a red badge of courage, proof that the depths of depravity are inhabitable. I flaunt it, deliver it on the butt of jokes about amorous cellmates and rusty shanks. Dad's ring tone is Darth Vader's labored breathing. Part of it is a giant fuck you to the other survivors who hide it like a hairy mole. Grandma behests, Don't tell a soul, lie if they ask...except when she marched me to the Social Security Office in Lynn. She told them I paced the floor non-stop in an effort to squeeze an over juiced system for disability. And why shouldn't you? The Spanish and the Blacks all do it all the time.

And so I sit through dinner. Split a burger with Rachel, my arm around her, caressing. We check out her ass when she goes to the bathroom, their praise validates my petty existence.

At her expense.

There was a time that I was quite astute at keeping my neurotic side from grabbing the wheel and driving us into a ravine. I think it's time to go back to therapy...

Lilliputian

I’m little. No huge revelation there. Just take a look. Big is the last thing that comes to mind when looking at me. But I’ve always fantasized about being big. Working out everyday and gulping protein shakes only made me look like a blow fish, over-inflated and still…little.

They say you have to think big to be big. So I earned two college degrees. But intelligence is all relative. Compared to say, a vascular surgeon, I’m really little. I overcompensate with an outrageous personality, but little men with big personalities just look like assholes most of the time.

My littleness was tempted by the power of things like firearms. I felt so big the first time I held a gun. But when it went off by mistake it only shed light on how little I was. After I checked and rechecked to see if my stray bullet killed anyone, I realized I wasn’t big enough to wield it.

So overwhelming was my desire to be big that I followed other bigs like my father and brother into jewelry stores to rob them. For that they sent me to the big house where I had to survive amongst the most dangerous bigs in the world.

But I wised to the fact that to survive, I’d have to play the cards I was dealt. I embraced little and realized that bigs were the minority. I dropped twenty five pounds, toned down my personality, and let my guard down because vulnerability attracts other littles, especially female littles.

But nothing makes me feel littler than my felony conviction. It looms the biggest detriment to my littleness. Nothing looks as large on an application as --Have you ever been convicted of a felony. Massachusetts Law says I can seal my record, 15 years after the last day of my sentence, including probation. My record is eligible for sealing in 2017.

Maybe I'll apply to work in a flying car factory.

Getting Baked

Budgeting is hard, especially since I don't make any money. Training is in the dumps.

Discretionary income?

Please.

So we tighten our purse strings. I can't spend over ten bucks without hearing it from Rara. "Three dollars, three times a week, is nine dollars, that's thirty six dollars a month that we could put away." So I try not to spend. I bought braided bully sticks for Mow the other day and was handed my ass on a platter. Damn that broad can do math quick. She figured what that would cost us over a millennium, then broke it down to me in terms I understood. "If we want to buy things for her to chew, maybe something else needs to go, like chips," referring to my inability to stop buying munchies. (Notice she didn't say wine.)

I feel guilty. Rachel gets up for work at 5am every morning. So do I, but I move from the bed to the couch, switching one snuggle buddy for another. The neurotic part of me feels castrated. I'm the man, (picture me beating my chest here), I should be bringing home the bacon.

On the other hand, we have gotten creative. We cook together more. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, we huddle around the mixer, baking, sifting through cookbooks and magazines for recipes. We eat healthy for the most part, incorporating grains, fruits, and veggies, whenever we can. The challenge is to avoid ingesting five hundred calories before the batter even sees the inside of the oven. Time is spent contemplating baking them at all.

Ever notice how hard it is to make broccoli taste better and how easy it is to turn a sugar cookie into an insulin coma? The other night we made the aforementioned. Rachel made a sweet lemon glaze for the topping. I melted down chocolate. We voted on which were the best.


Any guesses?

Showdown at Fresh Pond

It was a great walk up until that point. Mow frolicked in the small stretch of wood bordering the golf course, nothing new, but when she boldly stood at its edge and looked my way, I knew it was on. She baited and I fell hook, line, and sinker calling, "Mow Mow, this way."

She glanced back, poised to blow me off. I readied. We looked like two gunslingers, facing off at high noon, that is if showdowns consisted of one gunslinger running headlong into an open field while the other shouts obscenities. My blood boiled, propelling me forward.

I swooped upon her and grabbed her up, anthropomorphizing her with talk about how mangy mutts don't disobey me. I catch myself, as always, on the edge of an abyss. The edge of my anger. She did what any pup would do. I try to remind myself that running full speed toward a dead fish sounds like the most fantastic thing ever to her. I let her go, along with my homicidal ideations, and breathe. I leash her and deescalate, finding it hard to do these days. Eventually, I drop the leash again. Before my end hits the ground, she bolts back to the rotting carcass a few hundred feet back. I blast past her, feeling a measure of sick satisfaction that I outran a ten month old puppy. Her eyes begged, please Dad, don't kill me. Again I caught myself before committing the deed. Mow would live another day and I would be forced to temper my rage.

My therapist constantly points out the fact that my anger is never commensurate with the circumstance. Dubbed male's disease, he reiterates that I am struggling with the pain I'm in by dumping my anger on convenient targets. He adds that anger is usually equal to how weak I feel, that males especially, combat feelings of weakness by spewing anger on the world.

But I continue to fail at reconciling with the fact that I am human, and as such, try to deny my own ambivalence. No one can be all one thing all the time, and every powerful emotion has an equally powerful opposite. The equation sounds so simple: to acknowledge that we are comprised of both a healthy and neurotic side means that great love gets countered by stifling rage. I love you, and hate you equally.

It has never been more apparent that this concept eludes me as when Rachel says things out of the blue like, "It's the paradox of being Bry," referring to a conversation she had with her brother, Austin.

"Meaning?" I ask.

"You can be so resistant to change, you fight it tooth and nail, yet I've never met anyone with such a tremendous capacity for it."

Mow is safe, for now, but ignorance hasn't proven blissful at all. It becomes more and more apparent that digging out of old habits is like digging out of prison one painful spoonful at a time. But I'm hopeful...

Editor's Note: No Mow's were harmed during the writing of this post. 

Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

FELLOW FOLLOWERS: I have finally launched my website: www.changeisoptional.org from now on all blog posts will be there and here. The site is for potential schools to check me out and see what I do...spread the word. Let me know if you know of any schools that need me. Thanks again for your support.

We are all faced with change. When there is dysfunction, we adopt behaviors that help us survive, that become so enmeshed into our unconscious, we never give them a second thought. Some lay dormant, others manifest in obsessions. From isolation, depression, and acting out to more serious problems like drinking, drugging, promiscuity, and crime, we act on our unconscious motivation to survive life, rather than live it.

We ask of those struggling, “Why don’t you just stop behaving that way,” and become even more frustrated when they shrug and reply, “I don’t know.” Both sides lose patience, and the lines of communication are severed.

Often, the catalyst for change is either a significant emotional event, or as in the case with the addict, hitting bottom. This can take years. As the consequences become more dire, family and friends may initiate ‘Tough Love’ in an attempt to force the willingness to change, and to preserve themselves from further emotional harm and deepening feelings of helplessness.
Nothing short of complete honesty will get the addict through this crucial time. Anger is high. Relapse is likely. Emotions crescendo.

Developing new coping mechanisms begins with the realization that anger is a non-optional response to pain. Confronted with the root cause of their need to self medicate, the addict comes full circle and must face the fact that substance abuse is a symptom, not the cause, of their issues.

Neurotic behavior can be traced to a faulty belief system. Beliefs about oneself that are inconsistent with reality, such as low self worth and self contempt, can cause erratic behavior. Guilt in the absence of a crime is neurotic, as is anger in the absence of any real threat. Faulty beliefs require thorough examination, often with the help of a trained professional. Here, the distinction between the ‘Dry’ addict and the recovering addict, emerges. Dry addicts see no need for change aside from cessation. Recovering addicts choose to look beyond the behavior.

Public Speaking 101

I survey their faces at the start of class, during my introduction, and notice the ones that may embark on the road to hell. No one can convince them not to travel it and very few turn back, not until they realize the climb out hurts far more than the fall. Utopia is a concept dependent upon current generations learning from our past mistakes. But the inherent folly in our nature is that we need to experience it firsthand, despite wisdom’s warnings.

One tells me that cutting helps release her anger and gives her a sense of control over it. I grimace, knowing anger is a non-optional response to pain, toxic waste that no one wants dumped near them. But anger demands expression, so we’re forced to stuff it down. Inevitably, like a beach ball submerged, it pops up elsewhere, like cutting.

I feel a tremendous connection to these kids, especially the one that sits just outside my periphery and pretends to be bored, nodding off. Later, she’ll admit to taking an oxy, an 80, enough to knock most of us on our ass, but she’s stingy about the details, the why, the true reason for doing something so reckless. Some jump right in the water, others dip a toe to see how painfully cold the plunge will be.

They size me up and write me off before I utter a word. Soon their expressions change as whatever stereotype I fit initially is shattered. Suddenly they can relate, perking as I tell their story, wondering how I know.

I still get nervous but eventually find a groove. I focus on the one avoiding eye contact or cracking jokes in the back corner, in other words, me. After, I bask in the adoration and check my blog incessantly for new followers. Occasionally someone like my cutter contacts me and tells me she heard something in my story...

I hope to reach them all but am satisfied to reach even one. Healing is like tunneling out of prison one spoonful at a time. I’m still going through the process, I guess that’s why they say, progress not perfection. After all, change is optional.

Brothiz

I'd have to ignore a few key issues before arriving at anything resembling brotherhood; my homicidal hatred of Kev, his blatant, twisted cruelty, the fact that we haven’t spoken a word in years. Besides his relentless abuse and putting my life in jeopardy more times than I can count, we were as thick as thieves. We made it through a tumultuous childhood, traversed the white capped waters of addiction, and waded through the hell that is incarceration.
But there was a split. I got sober and he didn’t. I ran headlong into the brick wall of his addiction, trying hard to get him to see the path to righteousness. All I ever ended up with was a headache. Hubris hurts.
I see Rachel with her siblings. They all have their own issues, quirks developed the same way we all get them, faulty parenting. But credit is due, the bond they share is undeniable, and like most people who share DNA, each would take a bullet for the other.
Dad tried as hard as he is capable of to bring us back together, but I denied him. “Would you be willing to sit down with him and try to hash it out?”
“No.” I said, savoring it a little longer than was necessary.
“Why not?” he asked, annoyed.
I thought about it for a few seconds and answered, “To be honest, I’m not even sure what our feud is about anymore. I wouldn’t know where to start.”
I can’t and won’t deny that I miss him. I go over our history again and again, hoping to uncover some nugget of understanding. To what end? I’ll get back to you. I’ve been obsessing on the bond he shares with Dad, the one I still feel felt left out of.
So I declare that from this day forth I have adopted a new brother, Rachel’s brother, Austin. He laughs as heartily at my sense of humor, doesn’t pound the piss out of me for the sheer fun of it, and doesn’t actively put my life in danger (at least not yet). His anger is fresh and electrically charged, while mine is showing signs of decay. When he visits he draws off my thoroughly useless knowledge base and asks questions like, “What’s crack like?”
“Well,” I say, “you know that feeling, just before you become violently ill where you have to decide whether to sit on the toilet or kneel?”
“Yeah.”
“Like that, only worse.”
“Why on earth would anyone want to do that?” he asks wide eyed.
“Because it’s awesome,” is all I can answer.

Death Watch

Death was neither early nor late, on time or past deadline. There were factors that made him less an exact science and more an estimation. She was ready. What the cancer hadn’t taken was dim and fading, but she refused to face him. He’d wait.

Her son tiptoed in with a tray, and placed it down gingerly, she knew him as John the orderly. He sat down. Death acquainted himself with the anger that flared behind his ice blue eyes.

“Where’s my petunia?” she asked John the orderly.

Bryan answered, “She’s out Mum. Here, take these,” and handed her a fistful of pills.

For the past sixty days she had subsisted on room temperature Ensure and morphine. She reached for her smokes. “Mum, you shouldn’t smoke those.” he asserted.

“Hmmph, why not?” she replied, her point too poignant to argue.

He let her smoke, watching her nod out. “Why are you lying to me about Jess?” she asked.

“Mum, she left,” is all he offered in reply.

“Where’s Kevin?”

“He’s in prison, Mum.”

Her face contorted. “Bryan? My Bryan, please take care of him? He needs you.”

“I know, Mum, I will.” he replied unconvincingly.

Tears rolled hers and his. “He’s so angry. He won’t handle this well.” She looked over to where Death stood in the shadows. “What’s he doing here?” she asked.

“Who?” he asked.

“That guy.” She pointed to the corner

“Don’t know. What’s he want?”

She pondered, “He’s here to get me.”

“So go.” he said.

“Fuck that.”

“Well, you didn’t go when Uncle Teddy came, or The Goddess.”

“Well, he’s creepy.” she added.

“Mum, lay, I need to change your bandage.”

She acquiesced. He exposed the bandage that covered her stomach, peeling it back. Death shifted from one shadow to another, closer. The tumor threatened to breach her abdomen. Death watched her son’s reaction to his stench. Not long now.

Her son left. She stared. Death stared. “I can’t go yet. I don’t want to leave my kids.”

No answer.

“Fuck you!”

By nightfall, she fell into a trance. He put her where no one could reach her. Her eyes fell blank. She shivered. Her eyes failed to close or even blink. Death marked her passing by extinguishing each candle, one by one. While the last one flickered, he pulled her from her vessel.

My Midlife Crisis

It's not recurring, this dream. I'm on top of a skyscraper. My crippling fear of heights is noticeably non-existent. Peering over the top, the clouds block my view of the ground. I have a distinct memory of jumping before, something I'd never do. Someone is suited up and ready. They jump as I slip off the side. I manage to grab and hold on. I hang. Clouds lick my feet. Imminent death waits to break my fall. Although my grip doesn't give, shows no sign whatsoever of giving, I know I'll die if I let go. I try to come to terms with death, a topic that permeates my waking thoughts, the idea of there being no me. I can't seem to integrate death's inevitability into my psyche. It seems so implausible, and yet...
I don't fall but wake with a start.
In the past year I have become truly lost.
I have no idea what turn to take next. The sign at the crossroads points in all directions, so therefore, at none.
It's all about choices, but choices are about options.
School? A Masters? In what? I'd love to teach but can't have my record sealed until 2017.
I'd love to write more books, but the process is so maddeningly slow.
I'm starting to crack.
Can anyone help me figure out what to be now that I've grown up?